


Lies

by acerbitas



Series: Lies [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Degradation, Dungeons, Imprisonment, Isolation, Manipulation, Mistaken Identity, Psychological Torture, Solitary Confinement, Stockholm Syndrome, Thramsay - Freeform, Torture, Verbal Abuse, non-consensual drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/pseuds/acerbitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay Bolton secretly drugs his new captive in order to convince him that he, Ramsay, is actually Robb Stark. With this new identity, he japes with his prey by harming him emotionally in the worst ways possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rest of the chapters will be longer than this.

Ramsay strode into his maester’s chambers, his velvet pink cape swishing behind him. The old man looked up at him. He wore one of _those_ expressions: the ones Ramsay could never quite read.  He got the feeling it wasn’t the respect he was owed. Oh, how Ramsay would love nothing more than to flay the insubordination right off of his face, but he knew that his lord father would never let him get away with it.

“Get me a mind-numbing brew,” he demanded. “The strongest one you have.”

“You mean something to relax you, mi’lord?”

“No, you imbecile. Something to alter the mind completely. I want my prisoner to see and believe what I want him to see and believe, am I clear?”

“New prisoner? Would this be the Greyjoy lad you captured last fortnight?”

“Mind your own business and do what I told you. Have you forgotten your place?”

The maester sighed, and this time, Ramsay was sure that it was out of disrespect. His blood boiled, but he didn’t say anything else. Minutes later, Ramsay walked out of the maester’s room clutching a vial of bubbly clear liquid. He fetched a plate from the kitchens, doused it in the potion and made his way down to the Dreadfort dungeons.

The arrogant so-called prince was in the corner, shaking in his sleep. A hard kick to the stomach took care of that. The Greyjoy bastard sat up slowly, shaking even harder and staring at the floor. At least he was keeping his eyes down, now, a step in the right direction toward proper submission. But nowhere close enough.

“Eat.” Ramsay roughly set the plate down next to his prey. The Greyjoy’s eyes widened at the freshness of the food. Normally he only got thin, stale gruel, if not whatever scraps the dogs didn’t eat.  The plate in front of him now was full of crisply cooked meat, green vegetables and bright, juicy fruit. Ramsay watched the boy swallow nervously, as though he was trying to figure out whether it was a trap. Eventually, his hunger overtook him and he started to eat ravenously. Ramsay smiled and left the room.

He came back minutes later in his new outfit--the armor they had taken from the Young Wolf, before they had destroyed his body. The wolf sigil marked the front breastplate. Odd looks followed him through the hallways, but he ignored them, smiling in anticipation at the fun he was about to have.

\--

The room grew distant the more Theon ate.  Woozy, he put his hand down on the floor, still clutching a carrot.  His stomach screamed at him to continue, but he knew now that the food was drugged.  Fear enveloped him.  Looking at the carrot, he pondered it.  Thinking was like wading through sludge.

Maybe if he ate more he would be even less aware, he thought.  Surely this was some sort of jape, so wouldn’t it be better to not notice the pain?  Unless he had to run.  With that sobering thought, he stuck the carrot in his mouth anyway.  He was going to eat as much as possible.  In his dizzy state, he thought he might pass out.  But oh, he wanted to feel full, just this once.

Maybe passing out would be good.  Heart pounding, Theon took a bite of meat, and then another.  It tasted divine.  Shutting his eyes, he tried to remember where he was.  He tried to remember who he was.  And he tried to remember what he was doing on the floor, shoving food into his mouth like a dog.

Theon couldn’t remember.  He looked up at his cell door.  Why was he in a cell, anyway?  He looked down at his fingers--one was missing, which sent a jolt of horror through him--and then at the food.  Everything was slow.  He heard the key turn in the lock, and the clatter of metal grated in his ears.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Robb, he thought, nonplussed, as he saw the full-plated man enter his cell. Was it Robb who kept him? No. No...that was Ramsay. His heart fluttered with terror at the name.

“Robb,” he said, his voice slow. “Robb?” The other man was spinning in front of him, but it was Robb. Had Robb taken...this place? Fear, hope and panic whirled inside of him, far too fast to process.

“Theon.” Robb’s voice was tinged with disgust.

Theon knew it would be. He pushed his hands over his face and banged his head against his palms, trying to get himself to wake up. He did not want this. He wanted….he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask for death. Now that Robb was here instead of Ramsay, surely he could have it. Robb was just and merciful, and had loved Theon as a brother.

“Robb,” he managed. “Your Grace. Please.” He could not get the words out.

“Please? Please don’t what, Theon?” Robb’s voice was mocking like he’d never heard it before. Like he would do whatever Theon didn’t want, and enjoy it.

Theon should have known he was unforgivable. The drug was getting worse. He put both hands to the floor to stop himself from falling over. Surely, though, surely Robb would be merciful, like his father. Surely he’d let him die. “Please….let me die.” It felt like he’d drunk a deadly amount of wine. But it would all be over soon.

“Die?” Robb’s voice wasn’t like Robb at all. It was too velvety, too calculated, with a hint of a predatory smile underneath it. Theon’s head swam. He felt like the room had filled with ice. “But I think death is too good for you, Theon.”

Theon managed to push himself to his feet. “Please. I didn’t kill your brothers. I didn’t torch Winterfell. That was the bastard who caught me. They weren’t even Bran and Rickon. They’re still alive, I promise, just please, oh please--”

Robb strode over and punched Theon in the stomach. It felt like a knife. He dropped to the floor on his knees, coughing up blood. The room swirled around him. The room, the room, if it was a room. Its walls were grey, and stony, like the cliffs of Pyke. But this wasn’t Pyke anymore. 

“Please, I want to go home.” The words tumbled out of his mouth and he regretted them instantly. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It wasn’t even a plea to Robb so much as a plea to the gods or the universe or whoever else cared for him.

“I want to go home,” Robb snapped in a mocking voice. “That’s too bad, bastard. Do you know why? Because you never had a home to begin with.”

Theon just sat and looked at him. The walls moved around him and he tried to keep himself still. Everything blurred.

“You were never really at home on Pyke, were you? Your brothers didn’t accept you. Your parents didn’t, for sure. You disappointed your father, and your mother was only kind to you out of pity. She knew you were the runt of the pack. Why else would they send you to be my father’s’ hostage? You were their last son. Why you instead of the daughter of the family? Because they never wanted you.”

The room had blurred even more and Theon realized his vision was flooded with tears.  
“Please.” He curled onto the floor. Nothing made sense. Everything hurt. “Please just stop. Please kill me. Please.”

“Shut up, Greyjoy. You’ve destroyed my life. The least you can do now is listen to the truth.”

Theon stayed on the floor, staring up with heavy eyes. It hurt just to keep them open now.

“You had no one in Winterfell, did you? No one really liked you, save for me, you thought. Well, I was only pretending. It was all a jape, only because my mother made me. She said that if you didn’t have the illusion of an ally, you’d kill us all in our sleep like the savage you are. I even paid those village girls to bed you, because they wouldn’t have even touched you otherwise. Really, you’ve never belonged anywhere. You’ve never been wanted. You’ve never been loved. So just stay here. I don’t care what Bolton does to you. I’ve given him grant to do whatever he wishes.”

Theon’s breath was caught in his throat. Maybe I’ll choke and die, he thought stupidly. Maybe I’m so drugged I’ll die. Struggling and failing to sit up, he moaned with confusion. This wasn’t the Robb he remembered. The Robb he remembered was fair, and stern, but he was like his father. He wasn’t cruel. Had the war changed him, or was everything...true? Theon couldn’t bear that.

“Robb...you’re angry,” he slurred. “You deserve to be. But I don’t...believe it. You were like a brother. You could not. We were friends.” Maybe he just had to beg more, he thought. Beg more for death. Surely Robb would understand, even if he had to kill him. Robb had seen….Robb had seen him crying as a child at night.

Robb laughed, an alien sound that Theon could not connect with the Robb he had known. Something was off, but he couldn’t even see straight anymore. Shutting his eyes, he covered his face with his hands. It was like an imposter had switched with Robb--a monster. Maybe it was Ramsay the Monster, he thought, fleetingly, but it couldn’t be. That was Robb’s armor; he knew the look of it.

“Did you not understand what I just said? You always were a little slow. And too arrogant to understand that everyone hated you, and thought you were stupid. My mother always used to sigh and roll her eyes at your stupid jokes. We all did, even Bran did.” Robb put his foot on Theon’s stomach, and pressed down. The hard metal crunched into him until he cried out. “Sansa said she hoped your father would rebel, just so we all would be rid of you. It would have been fun to watch your head roll.”

Theon was too wounded to move or try to escape Robb’s boot. This wasn’t Robb, he thought, fingers scraping on the dirty floor. Robb would never. Robb would never. “Robb?” he asked quietly. He looked up into the black visor of his friend’s helm, but he couldn’t see inside of it. Theon was beginning, on top of it all, to feel sick.

Where….where was he again? Who was this? He faded out, then in again, then out. When he returned to...wherever he was...Robb was kneeling beside him, iron fist clutching his greasy hair. “I gave you to Lord Bolton as a gift. He has odd...proclivities….but I think I am being merciful. Anything more would be too much.”

“Robb,” Theon said, confused, unsure of where he was. But sure that Robb was here, giving him away to his tormentor. “Anyone but him,” he whispered, “anyone.” He felt pathetic, disgusting, for asking to be a slave. But surely, surely Robb wouldn’t leave him here when he understood. Robb did not like torture.

“Your Grace…” Theon wordlessly showed him his bloody skinless fingers. “He...keeps me on the cross...he beats me. Anyone but him.” The shame was roaring through him, a tidal wave.

“Like I said,” Robb told him, “I think I am being merciful.”

“Please.” Theon tried to keep his voice as even as possible, despite the waves of terror that crashed over him again and again and again. “We were brothers once. A clean stroke of the sword, that’s all I ask. You deserve my head, and more, but please...your father would have wanted...please do it the Stark way.”

“Please do it the Stark way!” Robb’s voice was mocking. It stung like a whip. “You know what you would actually deserve? To be stripped, chained up and dragged out past the gates to be eaten alive by crows. But that would disgrace my father’s memory, so instead I shall leave the dirty work to House Bolton. The actions of my foes cannot mar my own honor, after all. I hear Lord Ramsay has quite the short attention span. He shall continue to torture you in his current manner for another fortnight or two, for that I am near certain. But then I have word he plans to leave you in chains in the darkest dungeon. They’ll shove rotten food scraps through your door every day, but you will have no light, no comfort, no one to speak to you or even see you at all. You’ll live out the rest of your long days in there, cowering in the dark like a rat, unless you slip so far from anyone’s thoughts that they forget to bring you food at all. No one will come. You are alone in the world, now, you know. Abandoned and friendless.”

Theon banged his head down on the cold stone, and didn’t notice the pain. Since he didn’t notice it, he did it again. There was nothing to say to such cruelty. He stayed bowed on the floor, breathing raggedly. He hacked, and felt like vomiting, but nothing came out. For what seemed an eternity he couldn’t or didn’t move--he wasn’t sure which one. Theon already felt like a rat. A malformed, dying one. Would Ramsay really abandon him alone? For Theon the idea of being continuously alone seemed almost worse than pain.

The tortured man lay catatonic on the floor. For what felt like an eternity he didn’t move. He thought this horrible, vicious Robb would get bored of him like Ramsay would get bored, but Robb stayed. Robb stayed watching him, his hands clutched in Theon’s hair. He must still want something, Theon realized, or he would have blessedly gone. What could he beg of this new Robb? Was there anything he would grant?

“Robb,” he said finally. “What do you want? Why...why are you still here?” Why won’t you leave me alone?

“You’re pretty amusing when you hurt yourself. Maybe you’ll do it again.”

The taunt was so similar to Ramsay’s jabs that Theon’s drugged brain grew even more confused. “Your Grace,” Theon managed. “Please don’t let him keep me in the dungeons forever.” He had tears pooling in his eyes, and they spilled over. They were hot on his cheeks, and suddenly, he registered the pain in his head.

“Why would I do anything for you? Especially something you don’t deserve.”

Theon was beyond dignity now. The idea of being alone forever was something so horrible he’d never imagined it being possible. “Please just tell me what Ramsay...likes...so he won’t leave me in the dungeon alone. Please don’t let him leave me alone forever.” The captive’s voice broke.

Robb chuckled like he had won a prize, and started to stroke Theon’s hair. “Is that what you’d hate the most?” he asked. “Being alone?”

“Yes,” Theon said, before he realized: maybe this Robb shouldn’t know.

The hand suddenly jerked away. Robb’s voice was cold and smooth. “Then I shall be sure to let them all know.”

Robb stood up, and before Theon could register it, he had slammed the door. It left behind a haunting echo.


	3. Chapter 3

Theon struggled to his feet. “Robb,” he called out weakly. His voice sounded broken; mangled. The empty air mocked him. A minute ago he had wished for nothing more than this new Robb’s departure, but now, his exit seemed too sudden and ominous.

Hooded guards clomped into his cell. Masks concealed their faces, revealing nothing, not even their eyes. If they even have eyes. If they are even human at all. The thought sent Theon scrambling into the corner, trying in vain to shield his face with a bloodied, skinless hand. 

The two gaolers did not say a word as they each grabbed one of Theon’s arms. He moaned in pain - weeks of hunger had made his arms weak, and they squeezed with iron grips. Their fingers chafed his skinned, raw muscle and sent waves of agony down to his bones.

They dragged him out of his cell and through the hallway of the dungeon. Theon had once spent all his moments alone praying to leave the cell, but he feared his current fate even more. He shut his eyes, counting down the seconds as the sullied stone floor scraped against his flesh and opened old wounds.

They reached a heavy iron door Theon had never seen before. They opened it. Stone stairs veered steeply down, down into darkness so pitch black Theon had never seen anything like it.

“This one’s the lowest level, traitor. Normally we only use this one for storage, but the mold and bugs would rot the stores. We don’t keep nothing down here anymore. Except you.”

Theon swallowed, trying to clear his head, but everything felt like a blurry nightmare. The other guard--the companion to the one who had spoke--kicked Theon hard in the back with his steel-tipped boot, sending him lurching forward. Theon fell on his knees.

Theon’s broken fingers clutched the top of the steps. The other man pried them loose, grabbing them on the skinless parts. Theon keened and shrunk back

The men grabbed him again by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-dragged him down the stairs. When they had finally reached the bottom, one kicked him again in the stomach. Theon curled into a ball. By the time he had unwound, the two jailers reached the top of the door. They were silhouetted by the last shred of light Theon would ever see.

“Someone’ll throw down the dogs’ scraps every few days,” they called down to him. “Until they forget about you. And you’ll have to lick the walls for water. There’s a leak from where the snow-water comes in from outside.”

Theon tried to process their words, but all he fully grasped was that they were leaving him. Alone. In the dark. Forever.

“Please…”

But the door had slammed shut. The light had gone. The roaches and rats had started to come out--he felt them on his legs--but besides them, he was all alone.

Theon heard sniffling, then sobbing, which he belatedly realized was coming from him. It was an alien sound, and it most reminded him of when Robb would re-enact Old Nan’s worst stories. Sometimes Robb would fake-cry when acting out a death.

“And then the butcher’s wife was eaten by the Other!” Robb would shout gleefully, and Theon would laugh. He’d laugh all the harder when Robb would make strange eating noises.

Backing into the dank, slime-infested wall, Theon croaked. And then the traitor was eaten by the rats! Theon laughed, and he didn’t stop until he was so hoarse that he started to hack. Sinking down onto the floor, Theon began to cry again. He wasn’t sure how long he sobbed, but eventually he found himself staring at the wall.

His head was still fuzzy, and blessedly, he passed out. When he woke up, it was because somebody was pushing something through the vent. Food, Theon thought blearily, and then, when he realized where he was, he let the rats eat it.

Pain plagued him. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep because of it, and sometimes it woke him. He’d never been in such pain before he’d come here, and sometimes he thought it would never end. That was one blessing of the darkness: nobody came to hurt him.

Maybe, he thought, so starved as he was, he would die soon. If he could just be strong, like a Greyjoy one last time, and not eat, he’d get so weak that he would die. No water, no food, he told himself. But as the hours (days?) wore on, the lightheadedness and the ache in his gut grew worse. By the time he was tired again, he felt so sick he could barely move.

The next time the grate open, Theon was there next to it, waiting. He shoveled the food in his mouth, cursing himself as he did so. As time, completely different in darkness, wore on, Theon considered eating a rat to assuage his hunger. As more time went by, he considered both eating and befriending one.

The prisoner wasn’t sure what he did most. He either stared blankly, or bit into himself, or cried. He liked to think he spent the most time staring--that was at least stoic. In truth he probably cried more. The smell of his own urine gagged him.

Theon began to lose not only a sense of time, but a sense that there was anything in the future, or anything in the past, either. The only thing in the past that wouldn’t leave was the new Robb. New Robb had sentenced him to this, and been happy about it.

In half-asleep states, Theon hoped the real Robb would come to his senses, and come save him from hell. Sometimes Theon wasn’t sure if he was still alive or in hell itself. But when the door opened, and a torch shone light onto his face, it was Ramsay who held it.

The bastard’s boots clunked down the steps. Theon was frozen, but more than anything, he wanted out. He was willing to lose more fingers to get out. He was willing to do any shameful thing Ramsay demanded of him to get out. Even if Ramsay would just stay awhile, Theon was willing to do anything, and he hated himself for it.


	4. Chapter 4

Ramsay smiled. He looked soft, almost angelic, in the torch light.

“Well, well, aren’t I honored?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Am I in the company of anyone other than the Lord Prince of Winterfell?”

Theon couldn’t manage any words. He let out a low, weak whine.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been down here, milord?””

Theon tried to stand up, but he was too weak, and all he could manage was a shaky climb to his knees. Words were beyond him.

“Three days.”

Theon opened his mouth, grasping for words, but none came out. He had sworn by the old gods and new that he had been in the abyss for weeks at least. Months, even. All sense of time had forgotten him, down here in the freezing darkness.

“Three days, and already whining in your sleep for your mommy and blubbering prayers to your pathetic Drowned God. The whole dungeon heard you, you know. All the guards think you’re beyond pathetic. If this is how you behave after three days, I really don’t know what to do with you. Well, I’ll find some uses I suppose.”

Theon clutched his hair and shut his eyes, trying to center himself. Some strands came off in his hands, but he barely noticed. Hunching his shoulders, he bowed down in shame and horror. How pathetic he was, to think it had been months. Was Ramsay lying to him? Maybe he’d been down here much longer. He couldn’t know.

“Perhaps I’ll put you in women’s clothes, and you can be a lady’s maid. You certainly sounded like a woman these last three days. It would be a good place for you.”

Theon started to shake. The light was still so bright. His breathing was ragged; he felt weak. “No,” he said. Theon wasn’t sure if being left alone again or Ramsay’s suggestion was worse.

“I come to visit you, a prisoner, and offer you a way out and a place in my castle...and the first thing you say is no?” Ramsay chuckled, disapproving. “Ever proud, Lord Theon. Proud and stupid.”

“I am...the son of Balon Greyjoy.” Theon felt so apart from Balon Greyjoy that he seemed more like a cruel god than a father. “I am the heir to the Iron Islands.” He felt stupid, though, as he said it. Being the heir meant nothing here.

“I take it you’d rather stay here, my Lord?” Ramsay took a step back towards the door. It was a silent warning: I’ll leave you here and I’ll never come back.

Maybe nobody would ever come back. Theon chest started to heave. He couldn’t stay down here forever. He couldn’t say down here another hour, even. No more!

“I’ll serve you,” Theon said, his head drooping low. “Don’t make me wear a dress. I’ll serve you.” In the very back of his mind, he imagined an escape. Most of him knew it was a useless thought, but he clung to it anyway. He needed a little dignity.

Ramsay smiled sweetly. “And what do servants call their lords?”

“...My Lord...Bolton?” Theon asked, wincing as he said it. He felt like dog more than a servant, he realized. Maybe a rat. A traitorous rat.

“Ah, but you look like a commoner now. And you reek worse than one. Don’t you think you should sound common too?”

“M’lord…?” Theon eyed the exit hopefully. He remembered what Robb had said: Ramsay got bored easily. He couldn’t be boring. He couldn’t stay here.

“I think I’ll leave you down here awhile longer, Lord Theon. I’m not sure you’re docile enough yet. We can’t have bitches biting their masters.”

Theon felt his diner crawl up his throat, and he barely swallowed it back down. “No, p--,” he began, until he remembered where all his pleases had gotten him before. “I’ll serve you well,” he insisted. His hands began to tremble.

“I am sure you will,” Ramsay told him. His fat lips spread into a smile. “But not yet.”

Theon’s heart felt like it would burst against his ribs. “...Don’t leave me down here!” He stood up; blood was pounding in his head. Locking eyes on the exit, he tried to rush past Ramsay. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, clutching his gut and moaning.

“I told you you weren’t ready yet. Was I wrong?” Ramsay crouched next to his prisoner. He started to caress the other man’s jaw, which was trembling.

“No,” Theon agreed, helplessly.

“You tried to run away, when I wanted you to stay down here. That isn’t what a good servant does.” Ramsay ran his hands through Theon’s hair.

The touch was electric after so long, and Theon leaned into it. Another human’s fingers were on his skin and in his hair. It didn’t matter who it was anymore. Theon needed it. He needed more.

“Yes, m’lord,” he agreed. “You’re right.”

“You’ll learn I’m always right.” Ramsay clutched Theon’s hair tight in his grasp. “I will teach you.”

Theon nodded, and met Ramsay’s eyes in what he hoped was a submissive glance. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Ramsay smiled, but his eyes remained dead. Then he socked Theon in the mouth.

Tears welled in Theon’s eyes, and putting his hand to his mouth, Theon scrambled towards the far wall. Blood was gushing from his gums, where more than one tooth hung loose.

“Oh gods,” he whispered as Ramsay approached him. Staring at the well-polished boot in front of him, he felt a queasy feeling in his gut. “I’m sorry,” he babbled. “I’m sorry, m’lord.”

Theon felt pathetic; he had been thrashed plenty of times as a child, and endured numerous of training injuries. But there had been some kind of logic to both, and in both a clear end. Ramsay’s torture had no logic that Theon could see, and what was worse, no end besides death.

“When you are ready to obey me, you won’t try to run,” Ramsay told him. He left Theon alone, in the dark, clutching his jaw.

Theon had no idea how long he was down there alone, but by the time Ramsay returned, he’d given up hope of being released. In a fevered moment, Theon had started to hit himself. He’d been so stupid for defying Ramsay Bolton. There was no defying him.

Theon determined he would be docile and obedient. He would never call his lord a bastard, and he’d never call himself a lord. He shivered, and with that resolution, felt Theon slip farther away from him. He didn’t know who he was, but he didn’t feel like Theon anymore. He didn’t feel like anyone at all.


End file.
